ern divergence from the true and
proper line of profile? I rejoice to think that we ourselves are
exempt. I attribute this to our love of Pompeian Pots (on account of
the beauty and distinction of this Pot's shape I spell it with a big
P), which has kept us straight in a world of crookedness. The pursuit
of profiles under difficulties--how much more rare than a pursuit of
knowledge! Talk of setting good examples before our children! Bah!
let us set good Pompeian Pots before our children, and when they grow
up they will not depart from them.

Lady Duff Gordon's Letters from the Cape, and her brilliant translation
of The Amber Witch, are, of course, well known. The latter book was,
with Lady Wilde's translation of Sidonia the Sorceress, my favourite
romantic reading when a boy. Her letters from Egypt are wonderfully
vivid and picturesque. Here is an interesting bit of art criticism:

Sheykh Yoosuf laughed so heartily over a print in an illustrated paper
from a picture of Hilton's of Rebekah at the well, with the old
'wekeel' of 'Sidi Ibraheem' (Abraham's chief servant) _kneeling_
before the girl he was sent to fetch, like an old fool without his
turban, and Rebekah and the other girls in queer fancy dresses, and
the camels with snouts like pigs. 'If the painter could not go into
"Es Sham" to see how the Arab really look,' said Sheykh Yoosuf, 'why
did he not paint a well in England, with girls like English
peasants--at least it would have looked natural to English people? and
the wekeel would not seem so like a madman if he had taken off a hat!'
I cordially agree with Yoosuf's art criticism. _Fancy_ pictures of
Eastern things are hopelessly absurd.

Mrs. Ross has certainly produced a most fascinating volume, and her book
is one of the books of the season. It is edited with tact and judgment.

* * * * *

Caroline, by Lady Lindsay, is certainly Lady Lindsay's best work. It is
written in a very clever modern style, and is as full of esprit and wit
as it is of subtle psychological insight. Caroline is an heiress, who,
coming downstairs at a Continental hotel, falls into the arms of a
charming, penniless young man. The hero of the novel is the young man's
friend, Lord Lexamont, who makes the 'great renunciation,' and succeeds
in being fine without being priggish, and Quixotic without being
ridiculous. Miss Ffoulkes, the elderly spinster, is a capital